summoned the courage to say, “Uncle Mac, I’ve wanted to ask you something for a long time.”
“Yes, Richard?” Mac answered between bites. Richard’s manner indicated the lad had something serious on his mind. Mac stopped eating, and lowered his fork.
After a slight pause, Richard replied, “All the years I’ve known you Uncle . . . you’ve never said much about my parents or my brother and sister.”
Mac looked uneasy for a moment in response to Richard’s interest, then let out a sigh and appeared to relax.
“I know they died in a car accident,” Richard continued, “but you never told me how it happened. I wish you’d tell me more about my mother and father and my sister and brother—I mean . . . the kind of people they were. And I thought . . . that uh, well, you could . . .”
“Aye, my boy,” interrupted Mac sympathetically. “I understand. It’s natural that ye should want to hear aboot your mither and father—how they lived and died. I suppose I should have told ye sooner. It’s a wee bit hard to talk about, so I’ve been puttin’ it off,” Mac explained.
Richard nodded. He looked intently at his uncle, his keen interest obvious.
“Your mom was a virtuous woman. She was always lookin’ for ways to see ithers awright.”
“You mean, my mother was always ready to help others get what they needed?”
“My very words, Richard. Some women collect teapots, dolls, or jewelry. Your mom collected people in trouble. She was truly one o’ God’s helpers. Your mom was a gude Christian—I think I told ye that.”
Richard nodded.
“God rest her soul, your mom had wisdom and wit beyond her years. Mary’s way with words was all her own. One time she said, ‘God gave us children so we adults would grow up.’ Once newlyweds asked her why married couples had so many fights. She replied, ‘It’s not so many fights if ye don’t keep count.’”
Richard chuckled at his mother’s wit and wisdom.
“Mary dinna have a college education like ye have Richard, but she was always a reader. It made her thoughtful. I remember she told me once, ‘When we leave God out o’ our plans, we plan only for today. But with God in mind, we see beyond today.’ I’ve tried to keep that in mind over the years. One time in a conversation with your dad and me, she said, ‘Character is what we are, when no one’s lookin’.’ Mary liked talkin’ with people who needed to do somethin’ with their lives.”
“It sounds like my mom had a lot of good qualities.”
“That she did, laddie; that she did. She was one o’ a kind. And so was your dad.”
“You told me that my father was a college professor, who taught communication,” said Richard.
“That’s right. And like your mither, he was a gude Christian, who lived his faith—as your mom would say—‘even when nobody was lookin’.”
“What else do you remember about my father?”
“Well,” began Mac, “he was very particular aboot how his classes were taught, so he was. Your dad always was glad to make the extra effort for the slow student. So while he expected a lot, he also gave a lot. He dinna lower his standards. He raised students to meet them.”
“Hmmm,” said Richard thoughtfully. He was remembering classes that he’d taken that needed an extra effort he didn’t give. He resolved to give it in future classes, if he should decide to work on another degree.
“That’s really how your dad and I got to be gude friends, and not just brothers-in-law. Bein’ a teacher, he needed to have new information regularly. Since I was a relative and a librarian it was only natural that he’d come to me for help. He needed to do research from time to time, and I assisted him. Sometimes it was for a lecture and sometimes for a book he was writin’. As a matter o’ fact, he and I were writin’ a book together. I valued your father’s friendship very much. We were workin’ on the book when . . . when the accident happened. In those days, your family lived several miles outside o’ Portland, where your father taught. And I lived only aboot a mile from them. One night, they invited me over for a small family party—I canna remember the occasion. Everyone was laughin’ and havin’ a gude time when suddenly your mom said that she needed to lie doon—she wis nearly nine months pregnant with ye. The next thing I knew your dad came rushin’ out o’ the bedroom, sayin’ that he had to take your mom to the hospital. She thought the baby was comin’ early. So, your parents and brother and sister hurried into the car and pulled out o’ . . . the driveway.”
“Why did my brother and sister go?”
“Because it was summer; Kathy dinna have school and Roger was between jobs. They planned to stay with friends in Portland, while your mither was in the hospital.”
Mac’s voice dropped. “That was the last time I saw them alive.”
“Your dad had called your mom’s doctor to meet them at the hospital. That stretch o’ road in those days dinna have much traffic and so your dad could have driven top speed. As he moved into an intersection just outside Portland, a big tractor-trailer rig hit them broadside . . . the driver was speedin’ . . . he was drunk. A woman in a nearby farmhouse heard the crash and went to investigate. By the time she arrived on the scene, a young man in a sports car had stopped. She ran back to the house to call for an ambulance and the police. While she was gone, the young man managed to get the car door open on your dad’s side and found your dad was dead. Your brother, sittin’ next to him, lived just long enough to ask aboot your sister. Your sister died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital; she never recovered consciousness. Your mither died a few hours after the doctor took ye by Caesarean section. Her last words were, ‘Is my baby awright?’ The nurse thought your mither heard her answer that ye were fine.”
“What about the drunken truck driver?” asked Richard, his voice tinged with anger.
“He wasn’t hurt very badly—a broken arm and some bruises,” Mac answered somewhat bitterly. “He didn’t even go to jail for what he’d done.”
“He killed my whole family,” Richard said, both rage and sadness in his voice.
“Yes, Richard, I understand how ye feel, my boy.”
“I hope every day of his life he thinks about how he killed four people, because he didn’t care that he wasn’t fit to drive. I hope he can never drink enough to forget.”
“I don’t know if I said this before, but I did have an uneasy feelin’ when they went rushin’ out o’ the house to take your mom to the hospital. I’ve thought many times since then I should have stopped them and told them to be careful. If I’d delayed them just a few minutes, the truck would have passed through the intersection before your parents’ car got there. And then there wouldn’t have been the accident, and your family would . . . still be alive.”
Richard never realized before that his uncle felt guilty about the accident—that he felt he could have done something to prevent the deaths of his parents and siblings. Taking God’s sovereignty onto his own shoulders was a heavy burden his uncle didn’t need to bear.
“Uncle, it sounds like it would have been impossible to slow my parents down, even if you’d tried.
